


Scars and Such, and Other Inquiries

by yoshizora



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22785640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: Pillowtalk, unfortunately, is not one of Lady Mòrag’s strengths.
Relationships: Brighid/Mòrag Ladair
Comments: 7
Kudos: 81





	Scars and Such, and Other Inquiries

**Author's Note:**

> i meant to finish and post this on valentine's day but monster hunter world has been completely consuming me oops
> 
> i'm not writing as much xenoblade stuff these days as i was a year ago, and i likely won't be able to pick up that pace ever again, but i still have a lot of ideas i'd like to someday put down
> 
> not sure how the dialogue turned out here, since it's been a long while since i wrote something proper for moraghid 😔

Vanity is unbecoming. Taking pride in one’s efforts, however, isn’t entirely uncalled for. Mòrag wouldn’t consider herself to be _conceited_ in any way, hopefully, always conscious of the respectable image she must exude as the Special Inquisitor. Naturally, someone of her station must always be at top form.

Sometimes, however, she can afford to let down a part of that role.

The sheets, crumpled and mostly kicked aside, only cover half of their bodies. Their lack of modesty is hardly an issue here; the door is locked and the walls are soundproof. Besides, Brighid keeps the air warm around them and Mòrag had only just caught her breath, and the sweat on her skin is beginning to dry. They’re more than comfortable in this rare luxury, afforded a blissful moment to themselves.

Most of the time, if she hasn’t fallen asleep or plain passed out from exhaustion, Mòrag has very few words to share. Brighid never particularly minds, because—

“It’s rather unusual, for a Blade to have a heartbeat.”

 _Pillowtalk_ , unfortunately, is not one of Lady Mòrag’s strengths.

“Is that so?” Brighid is patient though, and she’s too caught up in that perfect moment of contentment, the one that follows that gentle ride down from the writhing and gasping and burning. So she pats Mòrag’s hair, as her Driver’s face is pressed close against her breast and her arms loosely wrapped around her.

“Yes,” she murmurs, her face still hidden from Brighid’s view. Brighid can feel her mouth moving against her skin. “Though I’m certain you are already aware of that, are you not?”

“I’ve done my fair share of studying anatomy,” Brighid half-smirks, and she continues to pet Mòrag. Her hair is a mess. Her own hair is probably a mess, too. “You’ve never mentioned my pulse before. Why the sudden interest, if I may ask?”

“No reason.” Mòrag lifts her head, chin resting against her sternum. She’s close enough that Brighid could crane her neck forward and kiss her, if she felt like it. “Well, no, I’m afraid that’s not entirely honest. To be frank, I’ve had some thoughts about our… differences.”

“Our differences?”

“Purely in physiology.” Mòrag props herself up on her forearms, still lying on top of Brighid, but now with some of her weight lifted. “I suppose we should be so fortunate that your v—“

Brighid places a hand over Mòrag’s mouth.

“Must we discuss this?”

“Mmh?”

No, she can’t be upset, because this is just Mòrag being Mòrag, so earnest and so affectionate when she’s allowed herself to let down her hair. Metaphorically and literally. Brighid has her role to play as well, during the daytime, and while she wouldn’t drop all those pretenses of professionalism while they’re alone, she feels no guilt about holding her hand over Mòrag’s mouth to make her shut up.

So Brighid merely laughs. Her lips take her hand’s place, and she hopes the kiss is enough to make Mòrag go back to her usual silence of basking in the afterglow.

It doesn’t work.

“As I was saying—“

“Can’t you just savor the moment in silence?”

“You aren’t the least bit interested in my observations?” Mòrag continues onward before Brighid can even give a response to that. “For instance, you heal remarkably fast; even compared to other Blades, I’d dare to claim. Every mark I leave upon your skin… disappears within an hour.”

That _is_ true, though Brighid had never actually put much thought into it. Sometimes she’d pondered if her dislike of blemishes and scars was influenced by Mòrag, or if she’d always been particular about her complexion. Those thoughts usually spiraled into that deeper mess of _who am I_ and all those things better left for a time when she isn’t cuddling with her Driver in bed, so.

Although, now that it has, she takes the time to sweep her gaze over Mòrag’s shoulders and arms and what’s visible of her back, half-covered by the blanket.

“I’m rather envious, truthfully.” Oh, Mòrag is still talking. “You are aware of my distaste for scars, and the like.”

“This one isn’t from battle,” Brighid murmurs, delicately tracing a patch of skin along Mòrag’s arm, barely noticeable, but bearing the telltale marks of burns from long ago. Her hand moves across her bicep, then to her shoulder, and then to her upper back, brushing her hair aside to uncover another stripe of scarred skin. “Neither are these.”

“Occupational hazards,” she says matter-of-factly.

“ _I_ gave you some of these.” Suddenly, she’s overwhelmed with a tense feeling of guilt. Brighid had faced her fair share of wounds from enemy blades and enemy Blades, but every cut and every bruise always healed before she could even ponder over how she had gotten them in the first place. She doesn’t really _have_ to worry about her complexion, no matter how many skin creams and moisturizers and perfumed oils she uses. Mòrag, on the other hand, isn’t nearly as fortunate. Such is the tragedy of being human, Brighid supposes.

“I hope you don’t feel compelled to apologize.” Mòrag says. She rolls off of Brighid to lie beside her, though one leg remains loosely hooked around her hip. “As I said, occupational hazards.”

“They’re not unsightly to you?”

“Scars from battle are proof of careless mistakes,” she says, running her palm up along Brighid’s waist. “Scars from you, however…”

Brighid sharply inhales. Why must Mòrag be so _poetic_ at the most unexpected times?

“Well, I hardly mind them at all,” Mòrag finishes. “Though I must ask for you to have just a bit more restraint in bed. Particularly with your heels. I can’t see them without a mirror, but I’m fairly certain I may have one or two scars on my back from those.”

“Do you truly mean it, Lady Mòrag?”

“Hm… while it is true I rather enjoy your sadistic inclinations—“

“No, not that.” Brighid holds back her laughter, turning on her side to properly face Mòrag. There goes the poetry. It was short-lived, but, ah, well. “I meant the scars I gave you.”

“Unless one were to scrutinize me up close, no one else would be none the wiser.”

“And you and I both know I’m the only one who would ever be afforded that privilege.”

“Naturally.” Her voice softens, as do her eyes. Mòrag’s leans in, nuzzling her nose against Brighid’s, her breath warm against her lips. Blatant declarations of love had never been one of her areas of expertise, but Brighid knows what she said just now was the closest Mòrag would get to one. It’s the effort that counts. And the thought. Maybe she’ll have to reconsider her initial judgment of Mòrag’s pillowtalking skills. Brighid catches her lips with hers, only for a moment, just to let Mòrag know that she reads her loud and clear.

Mòrag takes note of the steady beat she feels when she presses a hand firmly between Brighid's breasts. She thinks she ought to comment on it again, because the concept of a Blade's heartbeat that may not even come from a proper heart really is _fascinating_ , but the thought quickly disappears when Brighid pulls her back on top of her, gripping Mòrag by the hips.

Their ether link had spontaneously flared up, as it tends to do.

“Never feel obligated to hold back with me,” Mòrag says once their lips part, breathless, drawn in closer and closer by those burning touches trailing along her various scars. “I’d be insulted if you did.”

Brighid drags her teeth along the skin of her jaw, allowing the natural tug of their affinity link to rouse them both in tandem. They can probably afford to stay in for another hour or two, before everyone else wonders why they haven’t come out for breakfast. “Roger that, Lady Mòrag.”


End file.
